


The Edge of Light

by phantom_of_the_keurig



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, Mystery, Survival Horror, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 14:16:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13706169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantom_of_the_keurig/pseuds/phantom_of_the_keurig
Summary: What drove a person to reject a life in the light and seek one within darkness instead? Could one ever cross over from the grips of night? There was more to the man beneath the mask, and Christine was determined to uncover what hid within.





	1. Ink and Paper

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! This was originally posted on fanfiction, but I wanted to move it over here as well! Thank you so much for reading this first chapter, I hope it doesn't disappoint!

**I. Ink and Paper**

The dull hue of the sky was eerily fitting for the occasion. The sullen clouds lurked over the service, causing many of the on lookers in the crowd to shuffle anxiously. Christine skimmed across the faces around her as the priest drawled on with a detached sermon. If she, a person who knew Buquet, was nearly bored to tears- she couldn't imagine how out of place the priest felt. She wondered if it ever became second nature to speak highly of a stranger's time on Earth.

Of the handful of mourners that gathered to pay half-hearted respects to Buquet, she only recognized a select few faces. The Girys stood across from her with their heads bowed, although she occasionally caught Meg's icy eyes flickering up to meet hers. Beside Madame Giry, Monsieur André slouched by Monsieur Firmin. She noticed that André would occasionally jut his elbow into Firmin's side, as the later man seemed unable to stay awake.

There were other faces she had seen in passing at the Opera House, but she hadn't a clue who they were. In truth, it did not surprise her the majority of the company elected to forego Buquet's funeral. His death had been a tragedy of course, no one denied that. But Buquet had never been particularly liked within the Opera House. The absence of his vulgar humor and foul remarks was not seen as a great loss.

Christine shivered. She had always found his sneering face revolting, as he was fond of making crude faces anytime she had the misfortune of passing by. However, she would never forget the last time she saw his face, as the memory was seared into her mind. The image of his red, swollen face as he dangled by his neck over the stage haunted her dreams.

Another chill rattled her spine.

Raoul grasped her hand. She looked to meet his concerned gaze, and he squeezed her hand reassuringly. She assured him she was alright with her eyes, and then turned back to the coffin before them.

 _Raoul_. Sweet, handsome Raoul. She hadn't attended a funeral since her father's, and she was grateful her charming vicomte insisted on accompanying her.

The priest struggled to string a few closing words together as the service came to an end. The mourners did not immediately take leave, as no one was truly engaged enough to notice they were free. Monsieur André was the first to come to his senses. His eyes grew wide, and he slammed his elbow into Monsieur Firmin side one final time. With that, the managers turn and hurried away.

Their retreat triggered an unspoken dismissal. With a nod to the Girys, Christine took hold of Raoul's arm as he guided her away. She was relieved to leave the cemetery behind.

They strolled silently, lost in their own thoughts, until they reached the elegant brougham with its bored driver. Raoul greeted the man politely as he pulled the door open for Christine. She felt a small drop of rain on her nose, and she hurried inside rather ungracefully. By the way he grinned, she knew Raoul had witnessed her clumsy escape from the rain. She was too embarrassed to meet his amused face.

Instead, she kept her eyes on the window as the carriage eased forward. With her arms crossed, she watched the streaks of rain trail across the glass. While she despised the feeling of wet clothing and soggy hair, she had always enjoyed the sound of steady rain against a window.

"Christine?"

Reluctantly, she left her thoughts. She titled her chin back in his direction. He looked her over, his boyish grin falling into a sad smile.

"Where do you go, in that head of yours," he teased. "Sometimes I miss you so much, but you're sitting here in front of me."

"Oh, forgive me, Raoul," she frowned. Thoughtfully, she turned back to the window. "I feel like a mouse, and my mind is a bird that likes to swoop down and carry me off. Isn't that silly?"

"No," he replied. "I don't think it's silly. Philippe often gets lost in his thoughts. He could tune out an orchestra if he wanted." Another boyish grin, and she could not help but smile back.

They fell back into a pleasant silence. She was glad for the quiet, as her mind was much too loud to carry on polite conversation. The rain drizzled out as the carriage rumbled to a stop in front of her apartment. Her body ached for a change of clothes and a nap, and she had no intention of denying such an alluring request. Raoul stretched over to open the door and stepped out.

It surprised her when he shut the door after she made her exit. He whistled to the driver to grab his attention and gestured to her building. The man shrugged, turning to light a cigar. Raoul offered his arm to escort her the short distance to the entrance. He trailed behind her as she led the way up two flights of steps. Perhaps he wanted to make sure she got inside? He  _had_  been increasingly protective since that night at the opera house.

Christine shook her head. She did not want to think about that night.

She fumbled for her key in her bag. Sheepishly, she smiled. "Thank you, for today. I don't know how I would have lasted through the service without you there." Raoul straightened his shoulders and beamed, but made no move to leave. She turned to unlock the door. "I suppose-"

"May I come in?"

His request took her off guard. She blinked as the door swung open. "Of course."

Raoul had visited her flat on many occasions, usually for a quick chat over tea before escorting her to some planned destination. It always made her feel insecure to have him over, as the cramped space was embarrassingly inferior to the prominent level of luxury Raoul was accustomed to. Christine hung her cloak and pointedly ignored the several misplaced books and random articles of clothing strung about. She had not expected guests.

"Should I ready a kettle?"

Raoul shook his head. His appearance took on a rare air of seriousness, and he pulled out a chair for her at the shabby kitchen table. "There is something I need to discuss with you, Christine."

She clasped her hands on her laps as he sat across from her. "Is everything alright?"

"I suppose that depends on one's outlook," he scoffed. "Philippe informed me the day before last that he had struck up a rather monumental business deal with an investor in London."

"Well, that's great news!"

"Yes, he's quite ecstatic. Which is why he could not believe I was not jumping with joy when he instructed me to pack my bags, as he expects me to join him in London until the new year."

Her stomach dropped. That was over six months away. Raoul sighed, but held out his hands for her. Christine moved her hands from her lap and into his. He met her sad eyes with a smile.

"All is not lost, Lotte. My brother may be an emotionless, walking book, but he is not cruel," he chuckled. He pulled one of her hands forward to kiss her knuckles. "We leave in the morning, and I want you to come with me."

She hoped the shock on her face was not too apparent. "To London?" A pause. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. "You want me to travel to London with you?"

"Yes," he exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement. "Phillipe is alright with it, of course even if he wasn't I'd still smuggle you away somehow! How could he expect me to leave you here with the  _phantom_  still loose?" Suddenly, he scoffed in disgust. "Two weeks, it'll be two weeks tomorrow you know, and those lousy gendarmes have yet to find the man.  _In fact_ , I heard from the sister of one of the gendarme that they stopped searching after only a few days. They didn't want to declare the entire night an accident until after Buquet's funeral!"

The Phantom. Raoul's favorite topic of conversation since that night, followed by the incompetence of the investigation. She felt her heart skip a beat. How could she ever tell Raoul that while she nodded along with his ramblings on the phantom and the various ways he'd punish the man, she spent her nights wondering where her masked angel had run off to. It was impossible for her conscience to reason with her, and she found her thoughts leading to the phantom more often than she'd ever want to admit.

"I cannot go to London with you," she murmured. He grew silent, his rant cut short. Christine averted her eyes, as she couldn't bear to look at his face. She withdrew her hands to cross her chest. "I can't go to London with you, Raoul." The space around them grew tense. She nearly missed his whisper asking her  _why_. There wasn't a simple, linear answer she could give him, not when her heart felt at war with the rest of her.

"What about the rooftop," he fretted. "What you said, what I promised! This is our chance to leave this place, Lotte. There are no phantoms in London! We could be happy, Christine. Just a few months in London, and then we can go wherever you wish. We can get as far away from this place as your heart desires."

"My heart desires Paris, Raoul," she blurted. With a sigh, she steadied her tone. "I cannot up and leave. How could I? This is my home. What about my things, my friends, of the life I have here? What of the opera house?"

"What of it," he snapped.

Christine straightened in her chair. She huffed, suddenly feeling far too drained by the day. "Madame Giry wants me to give vocal lessons until the Opera House opens. The managers have opened private lessons up to the public again, as there's now an abundance of practice rooms available."

He looked at her like she had just squawked out another language. Although his eyes grew suspicious, he spoke with an even tone. "You want to give lessons? That's wonderful, of course it is. You're a splendid teacher Christine." He leaned forward and furrowed his eyebrows. "But, have you no fear of that place? You watched a man hang to death. You were nearly crushed by a chandelier. These weren't  _accidents_ , Christine."

"I know, Raoul." She sunk down in her chair again.

"The phantom did this, Christine," he pleaded. "The man you swore to me was real, the man you insisted would tear apart the whole of Paris to reach you." He ignored her protests to stop. "The man who made you disappear inside a locked dressing room. You  _did_  tell the gendarmes about your dressing room, didn't you?"

" _Please_ -"

"Did you tell them his name, Christine? By God, I've heard you cry it with fear countless times." She stood from her chair and sent it scraping back behind her. Raoul stared at her heartbrokenly as bitter tears began to fall from her eyes. "You never used to call him the phantom, Christine," he whispered. "He was  _always_  Erik. Why did you forget his name after that night?"

Raoul hummed at her silence. She watched through stinging eyes as he stood and slid his hand into his pocket. He withdrew something from within, but kept it hidden in his hand as he approached her.

"I've upset you, and I know you think I speak only from a place of spite. Forgive me, I've gone about this the wrong way it seems." He opened his hand on the table, and pulled away to reveal a small velvet box. " _I love you_ , Christine. And it does not shame me to admit that the thought of you here, alone, terrifies me."

He gently pushed the tiny package closer before making his way to the door. Christine stood frozen in place, even as she heard the door open behind her. At the last moment, she turned and sucked in a trembling breath. "Raoul?"

He twisted to face her, and she was relieved to see no malice on his face. He smiled, though it was far from his usual wide grin. "May I write you?"

She nodded. She hadn't the heart to deny him such a simple request. His shoulders seemed to relax at her answer. She wanted to say something, to scream forgiveness and explain the endless uncertainty that plagued her every waking moment. But she knew it was impossible to voice what her frantic thoughts were screaming.

Raoul looked her over longingly before bowing his head. "The new year, Lotte. I pray I find you in the new year." With that, he turned and was gone.

Christine collapsed into her chair and wept. What was she thinking? Had she gone mad? Her knight in shining armor was galloping away, her childhood sweetheart had offered to carry her off and she had tossed him aside. Did she not want a happy, loving life? Did she not love Raoul as purely as he loved her?

 _No_ , she did love Raoul. It was how she loved Raoul she could not decide. Miserably, she reached for the delicate box next to her. The brilliant ring inside was gorgeous, as she knew it would be. A whimpering part of her wanted to thrust the band onto her finger and chase after the brougham.

She pushed the box away. A flash of anger seared through her skin, and she stormed from her chair and into her bedroom. Perhaps she didn't fully understand why she needed to stay, to seek  _him_  out. But she had lied for  _him_ , and she was determined to gain some answers at the very least. Would  _he_ be accountable for  _his_  actions? Would  _he_  apologize? Or, would  _he_  simply deny any wrong doing?

She fetched a pen and stationary from her nightstand. Her hands nearly trembled in frustration, but she managed to scribble out three small words on the page. She considered signing her name, but tossed the pen away before doing so. She had to know, she had to find  _some_  explanation for why her heart ached since that night. She needed to know why she missed that terrible man so very much.

* * *

 

The days melded together. One after another, day into night, until she didn't bother to keep track. The first few days after Raoul's departure were some of her worst. Meg insisted on staying by her side as she cried on and off through the hours. And while she felt annoyed at her friend's insistent requests to venture outside for fresh air, she knew she was better for it.

On the fifth day, Madame Giry would not let her stay in bed a moment longer. She arrived at Christine's home at sunrise and forced the girl to change. Together, they cleaned the flat until the afternoon, and then she treated Christine to lunch. It was odd, to have someone come into her home and order her around, but she didn't mind much, as she was overwhelmingly lonely.

One month after the tragedy at the opera house, the managers declared the space safe for rehearsals and private lessons. Christine was apprehensive about her return to the opera house, but there were thankfully no lingering traces of the shattered chandelier beside the massive empty space on the ceiling. While Meg mostly helped her mother with dance lessons, Christine happily took on five regular vocal students. It was an easy routine to slip into, where she would meet the Girys on the steps of the opera house each morning and spend the day trying to teach all that she knew.

* * *

 

Christine waved her last student goodbye as she watched the young girl skip away to her mother. She glanced around, listening as the last lessons of the day began to wind down. She swung her bag from the ground and collected the few bits of sheet music on the piano.

She enjoyed her time with her students, and dreaded the day off tomorrow. She knew her Sunday would be spent isolated inside her home as she drank mug after mug of tea. With a huff, she turned from the room and made her way through the opera house. Her path cut through the auditorium, and she couldn't help but nervously look up at box five.

She wondered if her note still sat untouched beneath the plush seats, or if it had been found but ignored. She didn't want to think about either outcome, as she couldn't decide which was most painful. Christine bowed her head and hurried the rest of the way out of the auditorium.

The Girys were nowhere to be seen as she lingered on the front steps. Christine shifted from foot to foot, feeling restless after another string of sleepless nights. Her insomnia came in waves, leaving her almost entirely sleepless for many days at a time. As she fiddled with the strap of her bag, a sharp prickle erupted on her skin.

She felt eyes on her.

Christine looked around wildly for whoever stared at her, but she found herself completely alone. She couldn't stand to wait another minute, and she fetched the first cab she came across. The feeling of being watched stayed with her until she clambered into the back of the carriage. As the opera house faded away, she released a breath she didn't know she was holding.

It began to pour as the driver yielded in front of her building. She quickly paid the man and rushed inside. Even her brief run through the rain had her soaked, and she grumpily climbed the stairs. The moment she stepped through her door, she carelessly tossed her bag aside and made for the washroom.

She tried to ease into her normal evening ritual, but her irritation from the rain and the paranoia at the opera house had her on edge. She managed to burn her small dinner, and she stubbed her toe not once, but twice. Her usual nightly cup of tea was forgotten, and she headed straight for bed the second she deemed it dark enough.

With the sheets pulled firmly against her, and the sound of rain against the window, Christine curled into herself. She rested toward the window, where she had cracked the drapes open enough to watch the rain through the glass. The dim gas lights on the street below flickered, while the occasional clap of thunder rumbled through the night. She knew she wouldn't sleep for many hours, but she closed her eyes in hopes of letting the storm soothe her into unconsciousness. Another crack of thunder, and her front door rattled.

Her eyes fluttered open. Another knock on her door, and she knew it couldn't possibly be thunder. Christine pushed up on to her elbows. She couldn't imagine who would be at her door at such an hour. Another thud and she jumped. She wanted to ignore whoever waited on the other side of her door, but her mind considered the possibility of someone in need of help.

She did not know where this sudden source of bravery came from as she crept out of her room. She twisted the knob of the gas light on by the door and reached for a thick robe she had left hanging on the settee. Another knock, and she flinched.

"J-Just a moment," she called, shaking as she pulled her robe on. Every warning bell in her head screamed at her as she reached for the lock. But something urged her on, as if answering the door was the most important thing in the world.

With a creak, she pulled the door open. Frantically, her wide eyes hurried to take in the sight before her. She wondered if she was dreaming, or perhaps even dead.

He was absolutely drenched. His slick hair dripped onto his face, with the top of his white mask hidden behind his dark locks. At first glance, the exposed half of his face appeared almost skeletal, as his features were far thinner than she remembered them being. The heavy circles that always lingered below his eyes were so dark it made the intense yellow shade of his eye color seem to glow.

"Erik," she gasped. Erik shivered, but she wasn't sure if it from her voice or due to the state of his clothes. Silently, he reached his hand towards her. Instinctively, Christine scampered back. He flinched.

Delicately, Erik turned over his hand to show her the crumbled note in his fist. Christine immediately recognized her own hand writing. He withdrew his hand and turned his head to cough, his entire body tensing as he did so. She heard a faint wheeze linger within his breathing, even as he turned back to her.

"I found you," he rasped. Her head was spinning, and she stumbled back further into her flat. The ground was rocking too fast, and she wished it would stop so she could catch her breath. Erik warily stepped towards her as black dots began to flicker in her eyes. Her knees gave out from under her and she felt herself start to fall as she remembered those hastily written words she had scribbled out weeks ago.

_Please find me_


	2. Whispers

**II. Whispers**

She dreamt of Raoul. Free of restriction and sense, Christine drifted through the once endless summer days spent by the sea. She watched her younger, red cheeked self race through the gardens of the de Changy summer home. Raoul tailed behind her, his boyish grin and outstretched arms spurring her younger self to shriek in delight before darting off again. Christine beamed as young Raoul deliberately slowed his pace to let her younger self out run him, prolonging their game of cat and mouse. Her heart grew warm at the sight.

_Was he truly so short back then?_

The vibrant color of the summer flowers that surrounded them began to dull. Raoul picked up his pace, growing steadily translucent with every step. He dove for her younger self, sending them both tumbling in a fit of giggles to the ground. The pair came to a stop, and Christine waited with breathless anticipation. She remembered this, that particular day so many years ago.

On cue, the younger Christine rose to her knees and scrunched her face in thought. Her younger self clumsily pecked Raoul on the cheek. The last splash of color faded from the world as the scene disappeared and gave way to a new one.

Her father sat across from her. Cautiously, Christine regarded the setting around them. It was like no other place she had visited before, with a ceiling that opened to a stormy sky and walls that stretched out as far as the eye could see. Her father was clear as day across from her, but the other men sitting at their own tables around them were far less defined. No matter how much she squinted, she couldn't make out any of their features.

The faceless men were unsettling, bringing a cold sweat over her skin. Christine faced her father before one of the creatures noticed her. He smiled, bringing several wrinkles to the surface around his eyes and mouth. He reached out to take her hands, his smile unfaltering even as he spoke.

"I am expecting another to join us." His words left her baffled, though he seemed oblivious to her expression. "Here he is now!"

A chair scraped across the floor as it came to join their table. Christine dropped her father's hand. Her head began to ache, her stomach began to churn, and she wished for the scene to fade onto the next. She rapidly opened and closed her eyes, yet the world about her stayed firmly in place.

Erik gracefully settled into the chair beside her. He nodded to her father pleasantly, as if the two were old friends reuniting after many years apart. It was a strange gesture, as she never pictured Erik acting  _friendly_. Bewildered, she sat deathly still, letting a thick silence overtake them.

Erik and her father seemed indifferent to the lull in sound. They eyed her patiently, neither diverting their stare for an eternity. A deep, hollow bell rumbled somewhere above them. All at once, the faceless men surrounding them stood.

It was then she noticed the faceless beings were not just men, but women and children as well. Some of the figures embraced, while others simply nodded or exchanged a firm handshake. Her mouth fell open as she spotted a faceless man cradling an infant shaped bundle, while a woman like figure clung to his side.

"Are you ready?"

Christine shook her head, thought her father's question was not for her. He stood behind his chair, his gaze reserved and knowing. The bell groaned again. Erik sighed before reluctantly rising from his chair.

"As if I have a choice in the matter." Erik turned to join her father. Christine sprung forward and caught his arm. Panic started to overtake her, sending her heart into double time.

Her throat was tight, her eyes were stung. Her mind screamed at her that something was wrong, she couldn't let Erik out of her grip. The bell boomed a final time. A handful of faceless spirits began to shamble off in one direction, leaving their companions behind. Erik gave her a miserable look. His mask was gone, she couldn't remember if he arrived without it.

"It's time," her father said firmly. He turned to join the condemned in line.

She was sure her heart was going to drum right out of her chest. Erik pried her hand off his arm. "Please, stay. Don't leave," she gasped. He wouldn't meet her eyes, perhaps he could not, but he gently squeezed her hand before letting go.

The world began to literally crumble. Bits of the floor and walls flaked off like ashes from a fire, pieces of the room grew completely black. A tremendous chorus of sobs echoed about as the remaining faceless ghosts grieved for the ones they had lost. Their grief turned to wails that pierced her heart. She felt faint.

With shaky legs and darkening vision, Christine stumbled forward. Every step drained her, her muscles screamed in exhaustion as the floor melted into a dark sludge. The thick substance rose from her ankles to her knees, and she screamed as she became cemented in place.

Inky tendrils grew out from within the muck and slithered up her torso. She cried out for Erik as her arms came to be pinned at her side. She spotted him fighting against the crowd to reach her, and for a moment she thought everything would be alright. As he called out for her, the snake like vines jerked her down into the darkness.

* * *

 

Christine hit the floor of her bedroom with a thud. She groaned and brought a hand to the back of her head. She winced as her fingers brushed over a small knot. She wondered if she bumped the nightstand during her tumble from bed.

Her skin was sticky with sweat, making her night clothes and tangled bedsheet cling to her skin. The tight coil of the sheet reminded her of the nightmarish tendrils, and she shivered.

Christine unraveled herself from the sheets before they could constrict her. She scooted away until her back met the wall, her eyes trained on the limp sheets. When she felt confident the covers would not spring to life and smother her, she dropped her head into her hands.

It was not unusual for her to have the occasional odd dream. She had grown quite accustomed to experiencing entirely bizarre dreams, as they had become more frequent through the years. However, this dream was unlike any before. It left her horrified, the entire experienced seared into her mind.

She truly, without doubt, had felt her father's hand. She had never been able to reach out and feel what hid within her dreams. How could one do such a thing? Her stomach dropped, she considered the possibility she was mad. Entirely, hopelessly  _mad_.

Her hands fell to the floor as she was struck with a sudden thought. Cautiously, Christine brought her fingers to the knot on her head. Her eyes flashed from the bed to the bedsheets as her tired mind played catch up. She had fallen off the  _right_  side of the bed. Her nightstand was on the  _left_  side of said bed.

She couldn't possibly have bumped the corner of the nightstand on her way down, as it was entirely on the opposite side of where she had landed. Faintly, she recalled another part of her dream. Erik was at her door, resembling a drowned rat and ghostly pale at that. He was there, standing before her and he held her note.

The cold realization creeped up her neck. That was no dream, it couldn't be.

Christine stood, her heart heavy. Silently, she assured herself that was in fact a dream, even though she knew very well that was a lie. She glanced at the window as she crept to the door. It was still rather early, with only a few dim rays of light peeking through the curtains.

With a deep draw of breath, and a false sense of bravery, Christine pressed the door open. The dim sunlight pressed through the cheaper curtains in her sitting room easier than the ones in her room. It was enough to illuminate the room with a dull glow, though she didn't need light to immediately sense  _him_.

Her head swiveled, and she crossed her arms. Her bare feet moved across the cold floor noiselessly. She felt surprisingly calm as she approached the shabby table that served as her dining room. The very same table Raoul had presented his grand idea for escape, for safety, but most importantly, for  _them_.

She pushed those thoughts away like one would a pestering fly. Such thoughts were too painful, she needed all the strength she could muster. Christine stopped just short of the table.

A wheeze escaped Erik's sleeping form, causing her to wince. He sat hunched with his elbow on the table, his fist curled back to steady his head. It was her first opportunity to truly take in his appearance, as she had been too bewildered to do so the previous night. She could easily see each and every notch in his spine as it pressed against the clothing on his back. His shirt hung off his bony form, it reminded her of a corpse covered with a sheet.

It made her feel uneasy, to see him so disheveled. She had never seen him in anything less than opera best. Briefly, she wondered if it was all together  _proper_  to see him in such a state. Without his tail coat and vest, he simply did not look like the Erik she remembered.

Another wheeze. The rattle in his throat reminded her of her father, and the terrible sounds he made in his final days. The memory made her heart skip a beat. She didn't want to hear that sound anymore, not for another second. She couldn't stand it, it made her feel as if the walls were closing in.

" _Erik_."

His name was out of her mouth before she could stop it. Her voice was sharp, it surprised her how cold she sounded. Erik sprung to his feet like a cat doused with water. He stumbled to find his balance, his sunken eyes wide and burning.

Christine pressed her lips together in a tight line as Erik brought the back of his palms against the wall. It seemed to anchor him in place, though she noticed him shiver with each breath. He looked like a cornered animal, like a sickly creature with its foot caught in a snare. Despite the wild glow in his eyes, she wasn't frightened. Morbidly, she thought that a single, mild push would send him toppling over permanently.

The chance she had been longing for, day in and day out for weeks on end, was finally before her. They had pressing matters to discuss in her mind, and she held many hard-hitting questions within her arsenal. She had practiced what she would say every night as she waited for sleep to take her. Her moment was here, it was hers for the taking.

Erik turned his head to cough. The nights of fuming in bed, picturing the way she would confront him when the opportunity came, seemed far away. Planting itself at the front of her mind was the thought of her dream- the scene of Erik accepting some unknown fate and leaving with her father. All the harsh words, the bitter questions and determination for answers retreated to the back of her mind. It could wait, even though she was reluctant to let it all simmer.

"You fainted." Erik's hoarse voice pulled her out of her thoughts. She said nothing as he brought his hands to his sides. He practically squirmed under her gaze, kneading at the material of his trousers, his piercing eyes flickering from her face to ground. "You…fainted. Last night."

Her brows arched. "Yes, I'm aware." The unintentional icy edge in her tone made them both flinch. Christine cleared her throat, forcing her voice to stay level. "Erik?" When he met her eyes, she blurted the first thing that came to mind. "You look terrible."

Absolute silence met her bold observation. Her cheeks burned, and she stammered to find her voice. Erik's jaw clenched, his brow furrowed. She wondered if she could flee to her room before his burning eyes set her ablaze on the spot.

"Yes," he spoke carefully. "I'm aware."

"I didn't mean-!" She pressed closer to him, her hands still by her mouth in shame. Erik recoiled from her until he was completely pressing against the wall. "I didn't mean, well, I didn't mean like  _that_ ," she pleaded, gesturing at the half white mask. "Are you ill? It's just, you seem very sick…."

Her voice trailed off into another silence. The whole ordeal was far too much, and she felt the need to escape behind the nearest locked door. She went to turn and hide, but his voice made her pause.

"A head cold," he croaked. "Merely a stubborn head cold." She didn't believe him, not one bit, and her face told him as much. "It is fine, I'm fine."

Christine shook her head, her lips pulled into a slight frown. A spot of red had caught her attention as he spoke, lingering just under the white porcelain that covered his nose. "Of course," she said pointedly. "That is why your nose is bleeding? A small head cold?"

What little hint of color remaining in Erik's face drained away. He scowled, although she wasn't sure if it was directed at her or at himself, and pressed his fist beneath his nose. She burned to press further, to draw an actual answer from him. He was lying to her, no head cold made one appear two steps from death. Christine sighed, as she knew there would be little point in interrogating him.

She fetched him a rag, returning only to pause midway. Erik sat with one fist still under his nose and the other gripping the edge of the table hard enough to make his knuckles white. Wordlessly, Christine offered the bit of torn cloth to him. Her offering sat untouched for several seconds, as Erik's hazy eyes fought to focus on the object in her hand. His head swayed ever so slightly side to side, reminding her of the slow motion of a boat at sea. He blinked before sluggishly taking the rag from her.

Their fingers brushed together for a moment, and Christine jerked back. She held her hand to her chest and stared at him, even as he refused to meet her eyes. His skin was like hot kettle, with no trace of the coldness that normally lingered within his touch. Erik lowered the stained rag from his face, but the absence of more blood pooling from his nose did little to soothe her.

Her hand went for his head. Erik nearly fell from his chair as he slammed back, as far away from her hand as he could. He huffed to catch his breath before eyeing her suspiciously.

"What are you doing," he hissed.

Not even the dangerous edge in his voice could keep her back, not when her instinct was screaming at her to do something, anything, to fix him. Christine brought her hand out to him once again.

He plucked her hand from the air like a striking snake. Erik held her wrist with an iron grip, his burning skin almost painful against hers. His eyes darted from her fingers to her face, and she waited for him to speak.

" _Not the mask_.  _Not again_."

She could have slapped him. Christine huffed and ripped out of his grip, although she suspected he let her pull away without trying. She was seething with disbelief, she wanted to scream. With her hands balled at her sides, Christine stomped her foot and let out a frustrated groan.

"You impossible man!  _Oh you-_  I wasn't reaching for your mask!" Her voice grew shrill, and her face went hot. "I was checking for a fever, Erik. How terrible of me!"

Christine turned her chin away. She bitterly wiped at the angry tears threatening to spill over. She truly was  _mad_ , there was no other explanation! She was certain, who else would feel a painful, biting sense of fear for the health of a crazed, murderous-

There was a soft tug on her hand. She kept her head turned, horrified at the thought of breaking down into tears if she looked. Erik's larger hand carefully rested on her wrist, not quite clasping as he waited for her to react. She did not, but she let him guide her hand to the exposed half of his forehead. It was like touching a hot cup of tea after a walk home in the snow.

Timidly, Christine brought her eyes back to him. Erik titled his chin up to watch her, his hand still gently resting over hers. It was clear his skin was feverish, but she gently brushed over his temple. She had to be sure, of course, that she felt a fever- to be  _absolutely_  sure. A small sigh fell from his lips, thrilling her. How odd, that such an unintentional sound could send a pleasant shock up her spine.

She quite enjoyed that feeling. Feeling bolder, but Christine trailed further down. The bone beneath his cheek was sharp, a sort of jutting ridge that hovered over the gaunt emptiness that was the rest of his exposed face. She wondered how his face would feel when he wasn't so sickly, as whatever illness plagued him had stolen a concerning chunk of weight from his already thin form.

Her touch sent Erik into what she could only describe as a trance. His head turned to press against her palm, his eyes fluttering cold. They stood like that for a time, neither daring to be the first to say something.

The spell was broken when she felt him start to sway under her hand. His breathing grew sharper as he slipped back into a dazed state. Christine kneeled before him, again finding his unbalanced movements similar to a rocking boat. Erik groaned and hunched his shoulders. His trembling hands came to cover her clasped ones.

"Stop, stop moving," he breathed.

"Erik, I haven't moved. I'm sitting still. "Christine worried the skin of her inner lip, clueless as to what he was going on about.

"No, no, you're spinning," he squeezed his eye shut. "Everything is spinning."

She felt defenseless, helpless to help him through his  _episode_. Christine drew blood on her lip, making her eyes sting. It truly was an  _episode_ , whatever was happening to him. She didn't know how to pull him out of it, she only hoped it would fade like the previous one.

"It will pass," he grimaced, shocking her back to the present. She wondered if he could perhaps read her mind, but he carried on. "It will pass, in time. It always does. It will fade, with time."

"What sort of sickness is it?" she coaxed, eyes wide.

He hummed at her question, bowing his head to lean forward and rest against his hands around hers. She could hear him wheeze with each breath.

"One of my own doing," he answered gravely.


	3. Marked

**III. Marked**

It was funny how one could spend weeks channeling their solitude into an obsession for answers, only to find themselves speechless. His confession left her mute, but her thoughts were like a packed auditorium. Noisy, and filled with snippets of different voices.

Could this affliction truly be of his own hand? Perhaps he was being cryptic, she knew Erik had a flair for the dramatics. Yet, somehow, she knew this wasn't the case. Erik was not lying. His voice had been too vulnerable for it all to be a trick. He had been entirely exposed to her in that moment, and she felt the shame that haunted him as he spoke.

The kettle whistled, demanding her attention.

Tea, her hidden blessing. They had remained unmoving in a tense silence after his voice broke off, until she had clumsily scampered off to make tea. She must have been quite a sight, rambling about preparing the kettle and flying through the kitchen to gather everything. It was an awkward retreat at best, but she welcomed the chance to give her hands something to do while she went over his grim admission.

Erik remained deathly quiet as she moved through the small space, save for the occasional cough. With her back to him, she tried to ignore the feeling of his eyes trailing after her every movement. It reminded her of a cat that had spotted a pretty bird outside the window, and it made her shudder. She nearly lost her grip on the shabby kettle.

Christine huffed. While she had avoided a complete disaster, her lack of grace had created a small pool of water around the teacup. She fetched a small rag and began to dab the mess up with her cheeks burning. She didn't need to turn to see the amusement on Erik's face, as she could easily picture it in her head. He likely had at least one brow raised, if not both. If she was lucky, he might have even twisted one side of his lips up into a rare, crooked smile.

She couldn't help but turn her head to confirm her suspicion. At once, the slight quirk in his mouth fell. Erik deflected his attention to the table before him, ignoring her dejected look. Flustered, Christine returned to her mess of water and tea leaves.

There was no reason to feel so scorned by his reaction, and she reasoned with herself not to be so childish. She knew of course just how timid Erik was, as it was one of the first things she learned about him after joining him in his home. He avoided making eye contact with her the majority of the time, and would often scurry away if she came too close.

Despite his reclusive nature, a seed of doubt took root in the more anxious corners of her mind. She had spent much of her younger days cursing her small stature, despising her thin face and the firm lines of her cheeks. Those same whispers of vanity that had haunted her youth began to speak to her once more.

_What if he simply disliked looking at her?_

The idea continued to tease her as she brought two steaming cups to the table. She quietly took her seat as Erik feigned interest in a slight chip in the floor. The silence she was previously thankful for was quickly becoming uncomfortable. Christine pressed one of the cups forward, desperate for any sort of acknowledgement.

"Am I so terrible to look at?"

She nearly threw her hand over her mouth, as it seemed she had no say in what came out of it anymore. It was too late now, and she instead took a small sip from her own cup. The tea was far too hot of course, and she burnt her tongue.

Christine glanced up from her drink, only to immediately look down. Golden eyes burned in her direction, hot enough to make her lean back in her chair. While her mouth had no issue throwing out whatever thought came into her head, suddenly her lips could only press together.

"Is that what you believe?" Erik scoffed.

She shook her head, bringing her hands to her lap. For the first time, she could not bring herself to meet his eye. He searched her face for something, though she didn't know what.

"I enjoy…. looking at you," he said, his tone softer. "I am merely afraid you will ask me to stop."

"Stop what?" She looked back to him, leaning forward again.

"Looking at you," he replied.

Whatever logic he was using was entirely lost on her, and she made little effort to hide the fact. Christine shook her head before asking, "What do you mean?"

Erik shrugged. His hand went up to push some of the wilder strands of his hair away from his mask and forehead. It was a pointless attempt, as his dark waves had grown even more untamed since she last saw him. Absently, she wondered if she should offer to trim his hair, but disregarded the idea away immediately. It was doubtful Erik would allow anyone, including her, within reach of him with a pair of scissors.

Besides, despite him always thinking his hair unruly, she didn't find it all that bothersome. In a way, it fit him. Just as he was a contradiction to the rules and expectations of society, his hair was in open rebellion against the standards of men's hair.

Christine scolded her thoughts for drifting off. She cleared her throat, and with it, her girlish thoughts. "Why would I ask you that, Erik?" She pressed. She waited for a long pause, and almost stood to leave before his shoulders drooped

"Because my mother asked me not to look at her." Erik met her horrified expression with a black face. "She demanded I never look her in the eyes. God forbid she ever caught me watching her." He laughed, a short and cruel sound. "She'd scream until my ears would ring, and then she'd lock me in the cellar. It was dark there, all dark. She said it was the only place my eyes couldn't find her- down there, in the dark."

All at once, her thoughts flickered between fierce sympathy and the need to track such a wicked woman down. Of course, even if she ever did come face to face with Erik's mother, she'd likely break down into tears before seizing the chance to give the woman a piece of her mind.

"Why are you crying?" Erik rose from his chair and his eyes grew wide. "Are you upset that I look at you? Are you too frightened to ask me not to? Oh, Christine!" His hands gripped the sides of his hair and he turned, his back tense.

She went to him without hesitation. He was a murder, a thief, and god knew what else- but her heart wept for his miserable life. She knew she could hurl every terrible thing he had done thus far at him and be completely justified. She also knew the right thing to do would be to condemn him for his crimes.

Instead, she stood behind his tall form and gently placed her hand on his shoulder. He flinched away from her touch, his own hands falling from his head as he spun around.

"What are you doing?" He snapped.

"I won't ask that of you," she promised. She threw her arms around him, drawing him into her embrace. As expected, he squirmed beneath her grip before growing still. She noticed his clothes were slightly damp, but his feverish skin was so warm she could feel the heat resonating from him. "You can look at me."

He began to tremble. Christine felt a sudden spur of curiosity, and she brought her ear to his chest. She grinned. Her assumption was right, and she could hear his heart drumming frantically beneath her ear. There was another sound within his chest, a sort of wheeze that crackled with every breath. She didn't like that sound, and she pulled her head away.

His hand came up just as she began to withdraw. Her movement startled him, and he dropped his hand. They stood there like that for several breathless moments, her with her chin tilted up to look at him and him peering down at her with bright, wide eyes.

"Thank you," he murmured.

He carefully unwrapped her arms from him, though he didn't remove his hold on her wrists. She wanted to wait for him to move, to speak, to be the first to act, but something behind him caught her eye. She leaned to the side.

"What is that?"

Erik raised his brow, his grasp on her falling.

"What is what," he asked, turning to see what she looked at. A plain, brown box sat on the stand between the coat rack and the door. Erik shrugged. "Oh, that was outside your door when I arrived. I didn't want anyone to steal it."

Christine stepped around him. She wasn't expecting any sort of delivery. She went straight to the strange package, looking over the plain material for an address. She found none. Only her name waited on top of the box, penned with red ink.

There was something odd about the lettering. It was small, almost too small to make out. The sender had also used rather watery ink, as the red coloring of her name had bled across the surface. She touched her name with a single finger. Abruptly, she remembered leaving the opera house with a sense of dread the day before. Someone had been watching her.

"Was that you at the opera house?" She jerked away from the box and turned to Erik. He looked bewildered, which in turn made her stomach drop. "Yesterday," she whispered. "When I left…. were you watching me?" Erik shook his head, his hands coming up beside him as if he were surrendering. Her voice became frantic as her heart sped up. "No, but you must have! Don't lie, please don't lie Erik. How else did you find my note?"

"I haven't stepped foot inside the opera house since," his voice caught. He coughed into the crook of his elbow, but his voice remained hoarse. "That night, the show!" He carefully reached into his pocket and withdrew the same piece of paper he had shown her last night. "My associate brought this to me. I had him check box five and my….other, deposits. I've been…away."

"And where is away, Erik?" She shot back, spinning back to the box. Christine ignored his calls for her as her hands tore at the seal on the box. His voice became distant, far away from her one-track mind.

She threw the package open. A layer of crumpled newspaper waited inside. Piece by piece, she removed the many layers within, tossing the paper to the side. Her heart began to thud in her ears as she reached the final barrier of paper. Part of her wanted to simply throw the whole thing out and forget about it. But her other half demanded to know, to see what hid within. Christine removed the last layer.

She regretted her choice instantly. She screamed and cowered away from the terrible sight, her hands coming to cover her face. She knew it was pointless to hide her eyes now, as she had already seen the horrible thing within. Just as the memory of Buquet hanging above the stage was seared into her mind, so too would the image of the dead dove inside the box.

A dead dove with  _her_  portrait pinned to its lifeless chest. The eyes of her smiling self within the photo were scratched out, and a dark line stretched from one end of her throat to the other.

She gagged. Her entire body shook as hands came to pry her own away from her face. The heaving of her chest continued until she could only gasp for air. The sound drowned Erik out completely, as she could see him frantically try to say something, but her cries made her deaf. She felt trapped in her own personal world of terror.

She knew that picture, it was Raoul's. He had insisted on paying for her to have it done, he had proudly informed every soul on the way to the studio that she was a rising star. The next diva of Paris, of all of France even. Raoul adored her portrait, he treated it like a prized diamond.  _So how had it come to be defaced and nailed to a dead bird?_

Erik's hands cupped her face, his eyes pleading with her. She still couldn't make out what he was saying over the sound of her erratic sobs, but she thought his mouth was forming a single word over and over.

" _Breathe_ ,"

Breathe. He was telling her to breathe. It was impossible to slow her desperate gasps, as her body felt convinced every shallow breath would be the last. She tried to no avail and, wide eyed, shook her head. Her hand flew to her throat, it felt like she was being strangled.

Christine squeezed her eyes shut. Was this dying? Would she die, right there and then, with only the opera ghost to bear witness?

Her hand was ripped away from her throat. She pulled against the guiding force on her hand, but suddenly felt the damp material of Erik's shirt. He kept her hand against his chest as he slowed his own breathing. She felt the steady pace of his breathing under her hand, realizing she was meant to mimic it.

It was easier to control her panic with him to guide her, and she followed the rise and fall of his chest until her gasps slowed. Erik still kept one hand against her face, and she felt his thumb begin to brush over her cheek as the world around her started to return.

"T-The b-b-box," she whimpered. Erik hushed her, nodding. He had seen it too.

A wave of relief washed over her, as she doubted she could bring herself to ever describe what was inside. The thought made her throat clench, and she crashed against him as a fresh batch of tears formed in her eyes. It was odd, but she was thankful his clothing was already a bit wet. At least her tears wouldn't leave stains.

"Did you see who was watching you?"

Christine shook her head. "No, I was alone. I was waiting for Meg." She shuddered, and sobbed out, "I thought it was  _you_."

Erik shook his head. "Listen to me," he said gravely. "You are in danger, I think you know this, yes? I've made many enemies in my time, Christine- and any of them would strike at the chance to harm me. In any way they could. This has been my greatest fear, that the consequences of my sins would fall to you. When I received your note, I nearly died there on the spot. I thought they had come for you."

She shook her head, baffled. "But, why would they…if they wanted you…" She trailed off, the look on his face answering her question. It made sense, in a devious way, that they would use her to get at him. Christine was the single flicker of light in his otherwise dark life, and he had told her so many times.

Erik titled his head to observe her, waiting for her to speak. When she did not, he sighed. "I swear I will explain everything to you, Christine. Everything. Even  _that_  night." His implication was not lost on her, and she nodded. "But not now, it's not safe. You aren't safe, and for that I ask that you forgive me. We must go."

With that, he let go of her and went to peer outside the window. She stayed in place, shocked by his boldness.  _Go_? She had no intention of going anywhere, except to the police. Surely, they would know what to do after receiving such a terrible thing. She would just make sure to leave out any mention of the opera ghost seeking refuge in her home. They didn't need to know that.

"It's daylight, but it's still early," Erik murmured from the window. He leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed. His skin had taken on that sickly, green hue again, and she knew he was most likely quite dizzy.

"I can't just leave," she mumbled, fighting to break through her daze. Christine shook her head, bringing her eyes up to look at him. "You're sick, you can barely walk. Erik, we can't go anywhere!"

"I know," he snapped. His eyes shot open, and he stumbled from his place by the wall. "But we must. There is no other choice!" He came to grip the back of her sofa with trembling hands as he tried to steady himself. "I know I have no right to ask-"

"Then do not ask!" She crossed her arms, trying to ignore the sting of angry tears in her eyes. "Don't ask this of me Erik, please. And don't give me your word, you may keep it! I have no desire for your word as so far, you've shown your word to be little more than half-truths and false promises!"

She turned her back just as a small sob left her throat. She considered making a run for the door, perhaps she could make it to the police before he stopped her. It was a foolish plan she knew, as she would never have the strength to hand him over to the law.

"You want the truth, Christine?" His even tone made her freeze. She didn't dare turn her head. "Fine, that is fine. I will tell you the truth." He was beside her in a heartbeat, pulling her towards the open box. "I will  _show_  you the truth, here-! Look inside, do you see? Do you see it?"

Christine frantically shook her head. She dug her heels into the floor, trying in vain to slow their arrival at that awful box. Her hands pried at his wildly, clawing at his skin like a hellcat.

"Oh, stop it! Stop it, why must you be so cruel!" She wailed.

"Because the truth is I know the meaning of this message  _because I have sent one just like it to others_!"

Erik released her, and she fled to the opposite side of the room.

"You're marked," he said dangerously. "That's what this means, the bird. The picture. It's a warning, Christine. I know, I've sent it countless times. A banker, a merchant, a junk dealer, a doctor…. I've set my mark before, and now, someone has marked you."

"Marked me for what, Erik?" She whispered.

The sorrowful look on his face said what he would not, and she wept into her hands. She had never harmed another soul her entire life, and yet, someone was out for her blood.

She heard him slide down to the floor, and she lowered her hands. Erik sat with his back against the front door, his knees almost to his chest. His eyes were alarmingly bloodshot, and his head tilted gently from side to side.

"You're sick," she whispered again. She lowered to the floor as well, her clasped hands coming to rest against her chest as she hunched forward and wept. Erik sluggishly dragged himself towards her.

"I know, I know. I am very ill, b-but I can get better." He crouched beside her, his hands hovering by her arms as he didn't dare touch her. "I can, I will. I can get better," he murmured. Even with the wheeze in his voice, she could hear a hint of that soothing tone he often used for her.

"You can get better," she asked. He nodded eagerly, like a child. His eyes grew brighter. "And…you can take us some place safe?" Another series of nods, and he inched closer.

"I swear, I promise. You will come with me?"

She considered her options, and all of them were bleak. Leaving with him wouldn't be that unreasonable, considering the circumstances. After a moment, she nodded.

"Where will we go?"

"There is a doctor, an old…. acquaintance of mine, I have been staying with him. He has a summer home, a day's ride from Paris." His skin was slowly losing the sickly tone it had taken, and he seemed to regain some of his balance. He rose to his feet, and offered his hand to her. She took it warily as he spoke. "He will help us, but we will wait with another associate until night. Then, we can go."

"Another associate?"

Erik peered out the window once more, nodding absently. He suddenly whipped around, startling her.

"Pack only what you can carry. Do you have a cloak?"

She nodded.

"A big one, with a large hood."

Annoyed, she nodded again.

Erik waved his hands at her, gesturing for her to get going. With a huff, Christine hurried off to her room. She double checked that the door was locked before changing in record time.

She donned her simplest dress, one that wouldn't cause too much issue should he literally mean for them to travel by horseback. It wasn't ideal, nor flattering, but it would do. In a worn messenger bag that she had accidentally brought home from the opera house, Christine folded two spare dresses within. Her long curls were the next obstacle, and she decided to quickly pin them up and out of the way. It occurred to her then she wasn't sure what all she was meant to bring. Would Erik need anything during their journey?

The thought gave her an idea. Christine rushed over to the small chest at the end of her bed, calling out for his name as she did. She started to rummage through the disorganized mess of old stationary and forgotten momentous just as Erik arrived at her door. He knocked after trying the knob, an edge of concern in his voice.

"What is it? What's wrong?" He called from the other side.

At the very bottom of the trunk she found what she was looking for. A well-worn shirt, and a pair of patched up trousers. Erik knocked again, rattling the doorknob as he did so. She went over to unlock the door before he broke it down.

"Here," she said. She dropped the crumpled clothing into his hands with a smile, but frowned when he looked at her as if she had given him a dead animal. "Your clothes are still wet, I thought this would be better? They were my father's, but he wouldn't mind. They may be a bit large on you."

The smoldering look in his eye flicked out, and he nodded.

Christine snapped her fingers and rushed to the trunk again. "Just a moment, one more thing," she said, leaning into the depths of the trunk. She withdrew a dark cloak, and handed it to Erik. "I forgot to return this to the opera house, I didn't realize I was wearing it when I left!"

His brow arched. "Miss Daaé, I believe that's thievery."

She wanted to smack the smirk from his face. "It was an accident."

"I'm sure, are you nearly ready?"

He left before she could answer. She closed her door harder than she needed to. At least he was feeling well enough to irritate her. Maybe that was a sign, perhaps he would be back to his sarcastic self in no time.

She doubted it.

Her time was running short, and she gave her room a final once over. In the end, she decided to bring her journal, which contained a small portrait of her father and an old letter from Raoul, and the pitiful collection of savings she kept under her bed. She doubted Erik would let her use her own funds in any case, but she still felt the need to bring it along.

He was back at her door with a knock, and she bid her room a silent goodbye. She had no reason to believe she wouldn't be back, but something tugged at her gut. The same alarm bell that told her to bring her savings also warned her to take in her room one final time.

"Are you ready?" Erik asked when she pulled her door open.

She nodded, noticing he had indeed changed. Her father's clothing was much too big for him, but at least he was dry. Besides, she thought, that's what belts were for.

"Christine?"

Erik had moved to wait beside the front door, one of her darker cloaks in his hand. She let herself draw in a slow breath before going to him. She couldn't shake the feeling that every step felt like the last she would ever take in her home. Erik helped her into her cloak, and then turned her so she faced him. His hands carefully brought her hood up, and he let it settle against her hair.

"There," he said, gently brushing a stray curl away. His hand shot to his side when he was done, seemingly realizing what he had done. He stepped away to hold the door open, his eyes firmly on her.

They said nothing, and she knew everything waited on her to take the first step. Another draw of breath, as it made her feel braver. Christine straightened her shoulders and held her chin high.

"Do you promise to keep me safe?"

"I promise," he said as she stepped out of her home determined to hold him to his word.


	4. As Above, So Below

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya! If you've made it this far, thank you so very much! This is as much as I have posted so far over on FFN, but I'll start updating both here and there at the same time as new chapters are posted. Anywho, thanks again! This chapter is where things start to get realllllly weird, but I promise everything will be answered in the future!

**IV. As Above, So Below**

Her fingers glided over the worn material of the messenger bag. A soft breeze blew a stray curl into her face. Christine pushed the strand away with an irritated swat of her hand. The uneasiness in her gut grew with each passing moment, gnawing at her patience until she could stand it no more. She threw a pointed look at her masked companion as he kneeled beside her, silently working at the lock on the door.

They hadn't traveled far from her flat before stopping, much to her surprise. Erik had directed her through a backdoor of her building, one she hadn't known existed but didn't have the energy to question how he knew of it. She had tried not to linger on the thought as he led her through a series of back alleys and tight corners. Before she knew it, Erik had motioned for her to stop at the side of the familiar building, one she had passed many times on her way home.

She had never given the decrepit building much thought, as it had been in its state of decay for as long as she could remember. Curious, and desperate to break the silence, Christine asked, "What is this place?"

Erik paused, his head tilting to look at her. He looked at her as if remembering she was there, but quickly turned back to the lock before him.

"I believe it was a hotel, at some point." He mumbled, giving the knob a small rattle. At once, Christine heard a slight click and the door pushed open. Erik rose to his feet, his head nodding in approval. "It's abandoned now, anyway."

She watched him brush at the dirt on his knees before returning the small bundle of silver instruments to the depths of his cloak. His head swiveled from side to side as he looked over the alley, and he motioned for her to step inside.

Her nose itched the moment she stepped through. The air was teeming with millions of tiny dust particles. The sparse cracks of light that managed to peek through the rotted wood that boarded the windows only added to the eeriness of the space. She heard Erik slam the door hard enough to rattle the ceiling, raining down a small cloud of dirt and dust.

She wondered if they stood in the grave of a former kitchen. There were rows upon rows of rusted meat racks, many of them dangling above cracked countertops or stacks of broken dishes. The shredded remains of once occupied frames hung limply from the blackened walls, and she felt her hand reach out of its own accord to touch the peeling wall.

"There was a fire." Erik said by her ear.

Her breath caught as she flinched. Her hand flew back to clutch the strap of her bag. She whirled around, but Erik pushed past her with his jaw set tight.

Christine watched him cross the room with a glare. It wasn't her fault he crept about without making a sound, and who could blame her for getting startled when he suddenly spoke. Another stubborn stand of curls fell by her face, and she blew them away with an irritated huff.

"We haven't all day, Christine."

His voice was low from the other side of the room. He stood by a crooked door that just barely clung to its hinges, and he shot her an impatient flick of his brow. Christine readjusted her bag for no particular reason and straightened her shoulders. She went to him at a leisurely pace out of spite. He glared at her and crossed his arms, and she met his annoyance with a pleasant smile.

Immediately, she regretted her childish defiance, as a plump rat suddenly darted out from beneath a pile of soiled rags. She shrieked and all but danced in place, her hands coming to clutch her chest. With her grievances forgotten, Christine frantically scrambled forward until her out stretched hands met the sleeve of Erik's shirt. She nearly sent him tumbling over, but he shot out an arm to steady them against the wall as she flung herself behind him.

" _Did you see that_!" She squeaked, peeking out from behind his back. The rat was no where to be seen, and she sighed in relief.

She still clung to the material of his cloak with her firmest grip as her heart slowed to a normal rhythm. His hands remained by his head, as if he were surrendering, but he cocked his chin to the side to glance at her.

_Damn him_ , she thought. She released her hold on his cloak to hurry through the crooked door. She made a point to ignore his amused face, even as he followed behind her. A flight of stairs waited just ahead to take them below, and she stepped aside to let Erik go first.

"Where are we going?" She asked, cautiously making her way down behind him.

"Down," he replied somewhere out of sight.

She paused on the last step. There was only darkness before her, and she felt the urge to run back upstairs into the light. She gripped the rail and nearly scampered back the way she came, but a flicker of orange flame caught her eye. The glow went out with a hiss, and she heard Erik swear. The spark flickered to life once more, and it grew until the entirety of the cellar was cast in warm light.

Erik held a burning torch in one hand and a shattered bottle of wine in the other. He wordlessly offered the torch to her, and she took it gratefully.

"How did you do that?"

He shrugged and turned to grip the right side of an empty wine rack. He tugged at it until it began to slide, revealing a crude hole in the wall behind it. Her mouth fell open, and she leaned in closer.

It was large enough for a person to fit through, but one would have to literally climb into it. Christine suddenly felt rather cramped, and she dreaded the thought of what waited on the other side.

There was a sudden commotion from the floor above, and they froze. She heard a series of heavy bangs as someone sent furniture toppling over, and she looked to Erik in fear. He shook his head and held a finger to his mouth. She nodded, her free hand coming to rest over her mouth.

Erik beckoned her closer, and she crept to him. He cupped his hands and kneeled by the missing chunk of the wall, waiting. It took her a moment to understand, but another boom from above made her jump and clamber forward. She tossed the torch inside before placing her foot on Erik's hands. She braced her own hands on either side of the entrance, and then nodded.

She fell into the passage in a heap, landing on her hands and knees. Sharp bits of rock and debris pressed into the soft skin of her palms, and she pulled her hands away from the cold ground with a wince.

Christine carefully pushed herself back up onto her feet just as Erik dropped into the passage with a soft thud. She watched as he leaned out to grab a seemingly well-placed handle on the back of the rack and jerk the cover back into place. It felt as if he had just sealed them within a tomb. She shuddered.

Erik leaned against the rocky surface of the tunnel. He coughed, the crook of his elbow coming to cover his mouth, and he slid down against the wall until he sat on the floor. He looked deathly pale in the dim light. Every few breaths his body would shudder, and his fists would clench as if it pained him. She took a cautious step towards him, but he waved her away.

"I'm fine, it's alright," he rasped.

There was something off about the shadow his arm cast, and she spun away from him with a gasp. She hadn't noticed the slight slope in the ground, and their one source of light was now tumbling further and further away into the darkness of the tunnel. Christine bolted forward, chasing after the fading light.

" _Christine_!"

His call for her fell on deaf ears, as her body was spurred after the light with a sort of primal desperation. It was no secret she was afraid of the dark above all else, and the thought of losing the torch and being plunged into an impenetrable darkness made her heart quiver. She heard her own frantic breaths in her ear as she ran, drowning out the sound of Erik pleading for her to wait.

The gentle slope of the floor rapidly grew steeper and steeper as she flew by the openings of countless other paths. Her hands extended out in a poor attempt to grab the torch, and suddenly her feet were no longer touching the floor as she lost her footing. The way ahead split into two separate arches, and she screamed as the torch rolled right and her body tumbled left.

It was a small drop, but she lay paralyzed in the darkness. Her body ached, her mind screamed, but she made not a sound as she felt another presence with her in the dark. She trembled as a series of deliberate knocks came somewhere deeper within the darkness. It sounded like someone tapping a small stick against a stone wall, each calculated sound immediately followed by another.

The noise grew closer, and she shuddered, letting out the smallest whimper. The knocking silenced for the first time, and instead a low growl rumbled through the dark. The knocking resumed, louder this time, like a fluttering heartbeat, and to her horror it was coming closer.

She was being  _hunted_  by something in the dark, and she covered her mouth with both hands to stop the wail in her throat from escaping. She prayed it couldn't see her, that it could only hear her like she could hear it. The thought gave her an idea, and she struck her hand out to the side. She hovered her fingers over the floor until she met the sharp edge of a rock.

Christine hurled the rock as far away from her as she could. The creature in the dark screeched, making her blood run cold. The series of knocks hurried off in the direction of the rock, and she gently rose to her feet. Her entire body shook like a leaf in the wind, but she willed her steps to be silent as she tried in vain to climb back where she had fallen. The ledge was just out of reach, but she couldn't risk making even a single sound.

" _Christine_!"

Erik's voice echoed from somewhere above, and the demon in the dark gave another snarl. The knocks raced towards her like a charge, and she knew it would find her in a matter of moments. She jumped up and down in an attempt to grab onto the ledge.

" _Christine where are you_!"

She felt the weight of death upon her. She feared whatever waited at the other end of the knocks that aimed towards her, and she let out a scream.

"Erik!"

There was the sound of rocks sliding against the floor above, and suddenly a dark figure with a fiery torch leapt down beside her. Her relief was cut short, as the mercy of light gave her a clear look at the red hooded  _thing_  charging right at them.

Erik yanked her behind him and held the torch above their heads before booming out, " _As_   _above_!"

The hooded  _thing_  skittered to a stop just before them. The light didn't reach the shadows of its face, but Christine took in the sight of it's pale, stained hands.  _It_  stood hunched over and gave a hateful growl from the back of its throat. It was an awful sound she never knew a person could make.

That was one thing she was sure about  _it_ , whatever  _it_  was.  _It_  was human, and  _it_  spoke with a hellish voice she never wanted to hear again.

"So below,"  _it_  replied.

The  _thing_  banged its crude staff against the floor, sending shivers up her spine. It was only then she noticed the chipped skull that sat atop of its staff, and she held tighter to the material of Erik's cloak. The hooded  _thing_  backed away from them with writhing movements, reminding her of a beetle. The staff tapped against the floor with every step  _it_  took, and she heard  _its_  strained voice as it mumbled in an endless chant.

"As above, so below. As above, so below."

She felt Erik release a sharp breath, and it only occurred to her then that he was not actually fearless. Erik could fear something just as she did, and the thought comforted her.

The feverish skin of his hand made her flinch, and she fell out of her thoughts. Erik had turned to her, but he kept an eye on the  _thing_  as it wondered the area. She opened her mouth to thank him, but he shook his head. He only had to point at the hooded figure for her to understand. She reached for his hand instead.

Erik looked from her to her hand with a frown, and held out the torch, confused.

Perhaps it was the near-death experience, but Christine didn't have the patience for these sorts of games. She entwined their hands and held his sleeve with her other. She had never clung to his side so boldly before, but she didn't care that much to think it over. All she wanted was to get as far away from the tunnels and the hooded  _thing_  as possible.

Erik squeezed her hand, as if testing out the feeling of her hand in his, and ran his thumb across the back of her palm. Even as he led her through the middle of the stone room, he periodically squeezed her hand. She didn't mind, not when the  _thing_  tilted its hooded head to the side to listen to them leave.

"Erik," she whispered. "It's watching us."

"It can't see us." He breathed back, though he did look over his shoulder. "It's blind."

"Oh," was all she could think to say.

There were four archways at the end of the room, and he led her to the one on the far right. The  _thing_  let out a demented giggle, and she whimpered.

"Oh, I know that voice,"  _it_  practically sang. She felt frozen in place, the hair on the back of her neck stood up. Erik tugged her forward, but then  _it_  spoke again, making them both stop. "That's the man in the mask, yes that's who. They say it's a golden mask, for the price that's asked. A golden mask, the man's mask." The thing let out another chuckle, but this time it was she who tried to pull Erik away. "But it's only a golden task if you bring a  _dead_  man's mask."

The  _thing's_  high, cold laughter followed them into the next passage. She knew she wasn't the only one going over its cryptic words, but she didn't dare ask Erik what  _it_  meant by a  _dead man's mask_.

Christine fell into her thoughts until Erik slowed to a stop. She couldn't hear the terrible laughter anymore, but her spine tingled at the memory of it.

"You're hurt," Erik stated.

He looked at her with a frown, and her hands followed where he stared until she found a small cut above her eyebrow.

"Oh, I didn't even real-"

"I'm sorry." He pressed on through the narrow tunnel again, leaving her stunned in place.

She had enough sense to not lose the light again, and she quickly caught up to him. It was difficult to match his long strides, and she went back to clutching his hand and sleeve, as it seemed to slow him down. He didn't object to her touch, but she felt him twitch under her hand.

"What are you sorry for?" She looked at the bare half of his face as they walked. She watched him try to find the right words, his jaw clenching and unclenching in thought.

"I couldn't catch up," he confessed. "Normally…normally it's not like this."

"Like what?" She pressed. Erik shrugged, but she caught the miserable look in his eye.

"Hard to breathe," he muttered. The edge in his tone made her throat sting, and she tore her eyes away from him to stare ahead into the endless darkness.

It was deathly quiet below ground, with only their footsteps and the soft wheeze in his chest breaking the silence. There were a hundred new questions in her head she was determined to ask him, but not now. Even though her desire for answers was almost painful, from the origin of the tunnels to the  _thing_  in the stone room, she knew it would have to wait. One day, when he looked a little less close to death, she would sit him down and demand to know  _everything_  she could think to ask.

* * *

 

Erik guided her through so many twists and turns she gave up trying to keep track. He let her cling to him, for which she was grateful, but they didn't speak save for the occasional quiet direction from him.

They stopped for breaks with increasing frequency, but still she said nothing. It wasn't until he stumbled for the sixth time in ten minutes that she made him stop.

"Let me feel your head," she demanded.

He pulled out of her reach. "I'm fine," he snapped.

Christine threw her hands up in defeat. She stubbornly crossed her arms over her chest and met his glare. Her patience had run thin, her feet ached terribly, and she wanted nothing more than a warm pastry and a nap. He glanced from her face to her hand, but she looked away from the unspoken plea in his eyes.

It was rare when she felt a streak of bitterness in her heart, but she found herself throwing his earlier words back at him as she turned to the darkness ahead.

"We haven't all day, Erik."

There was no rush of immense satisfaction from her coldness, to her surprise. Erik walked ahead with a slow stagger, his shoulder's low. Mortified by her cruelness, Christine felt her cheeks burn red. She was too embarrassed to speak, as she was afraid she would damage everything further, and she couldn't bring herself to reach for his hand.

It was an uncomfortable silence, and she despised every moment of it. Her mind was filled to the brim with awful thoughts of herself. She didn't notice Erik had stopped until she nearly walked into him. He swore again, and she stepped out from behind him.

The way forward was flooded, all the way to the lone ladder at the far end of the hall. The air itself was cold enough, and she couldn't imagine how agonizing the water would feel.

"Is there another way?"

Erik shook his head. He gestured to the ladder. "That's our stop."

Christine sighed, and closed her eyes. Her skin was already teeming with gooseflesh, and she shivered. There was a rustle beside her, and she opened her eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"It's knee deep for you," he said, handing her the torch to remove his cloak. He offered this to her as well, but she looked him wide eyed as his plan became clear.

"Absolutely not," she snapped. "You are not carrying me-"

"Rats can swim, Christine."

Christine stepped away from the water with a grimace, holding the torch out like a weapon. She worried her lip in thought.

"You're sick," she stated.

"I am."

"What if…what if this makes you sicker?" She frowned, lowering the torch. He looked at her, puzzled by her fear. There was a splash somewhere out in the water, and Christine yelped. "Was that a rat?"

Erik offered his cloak again, and she took it reluctantly. At the very least, he would have some dry clothes she supposed. She hastily tucked the dark material into her bag before he held his arms out for her.

"Please don't burn me," he asked seriously as he swung her up and into his arms.

Christine rolled her eyes, but made sure to hold the torch out a safe distance from them. "I'm not going to burn you, Erik." When he didn't immediately move, she titled her head to the side and looked at him.

He was watching her with bright eyes, his lips struggling speak. "Since you're…well, you can reach now…. if you still…" His words failed him, and he gently leaned forward.

She couldn't help the sad smile that tugged at her lips, and she carefully placed her free hand against the uncovered half of his forehead.

"Are you implying I'm short, Monsieur?" She hid her concern behind the playful tease in her voice, as his skin was almost too hot to the touch.

He didn't answer, and she looked away sheepishly before she did something she would regret. Her hand went from his head to his shoulder, and she felt the moment he stepped into the water as his entire body tensed.

"Is it quite cold?"

Erik nodded, and she felt the smallest tremor in his grip. She felt awful as he carried her through the frigid water. She looked at him once more, but her eyes caught the shadow of a large figure at the edge of the water behind him. Her hand gripped at his shoulder tight enough to make him stop, and she raised the torch above their heads.

"Erik," she whimpered, " _It's_   _back_."


End file.
